


The Brazilian Conspiracy

by suitesamba



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Blow Jobs, Fantasy Fulfillment, M/M, Rimming, Role Playing, role-played dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock plays out one of John's fantasies - the delivery boy who has far more on his mind than the Indian take-away he's just handed over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brazilian Conspiracy

**Author's Note:**

> This story is available in an almost-identical version in my Knight Magic potterlock verse. This version, however, is just plain ol' Sherlock and John, no wands, no magic, and stands completely alone. Written for Superbowl Sunday/Porn Sunday challenge on LJ.

John tossed the morning post onto the kitchen table and glanced over at Sherlock. They’d been back from a month-long trip for two weeks now, and Sherlock, despite having spent more than three weeks on a case in the States, was bored.

“No word from Lestrade?” 

Sherlock shook his head.

“You texted him when we got back, right?”

“You’ve asked me that four times this past week. Yes, I texted him upon my return. I told him I’m back in London and available for consultation.”

“Want me to find a client for you, then?”

“I’m capable of finding one on my own,” Sherlock replied, flicking through his mobile. His thumb paused, and he stared at something on the screen, then started swiping again.

“You’re bored to death,” John said. “Go see Molly.”

Sherlock looked up from his mobile. He stared at John a long, long moment until John huffed out a breath.

“Right. She’s still angry with you for scaring her boyfriend off.”

“She has deplorable taste in men.”

“She liked you.”

“There are exceptions.”

“She’s taking this pretty hard.” John sat at the kitchen table and opened his laptop. He needed to start catching up on blog comments. There were quite a few he needed to screen and he’d fallen behind with his very limited access to the internet this past month.

“She apparently thought he was _the one_.” Sherlock’s voice was low, his attention still on the mobile. John looked up, curious, and Sherlock dropped the phone on the table and fell back onto the cushions, covering his eyes with his forearm. “She had no idea he was an art thief.”

“Well, regardless – you owe her,” John said. He flexed his fingers, arching them over the keyboard as he prepared to log in. “You should take her out to dinner, apologize.”

Sherlock’s arm slid up onto his forehead so he could glare more convincingly at John.

“Come to think of it – you owe me, too.”

Sherlock stared at him, furling his forehead as if trying to work out the answer to a puzzle. 

“Think about it,” said John.

After a near-disastrous stake-out on the Ute reservation in Southern Colorado, Sherlock had made some rash promises to John involving a few of John’s favorite sexual fantasies. 

“Right. Hitchhiker. Delivery Boy. Handcuffs.”

“You promised. You bribed me when I didn’t want to hide in the middle of that flock of sheep.”

Sherlock’s arm slid back down over his eyes and he let out a deep sigh. He lay there, hardly moving, for another fifteen minutes while John logged into his blog.

Holy shit. Three hundred and sixty-four comments.

He hardly heard Sherlock get off the sofa, and paid little attention to the shower starting up. When Sherlock appeared thirty minutes later fully dressed, John looked up. “Going out?”

“For a bit.” Sherlock gave him what he took for a brave smile. “Order something for dinner, alright?”

“Yeah – good. Indian?”

John continued typing, frowning at a comment complaining about Sherlock’s extended absence. 

“Indian is fine. Shikara’s?”

John’s fingers paused over the keyboard. He glanced at Sherlock. “Shikara’s it is. Seven alright?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Say hi to Greg,” John murmured, a satisfied smile on his face as he returned to his blog comments.

ooOoo

John remembered to call in the take-away order before six, and was surprised to hear the bell downstairs and Mrs. Hudson’s voice at half past.

Mrs. Hudson led the way upstairs, as she always did, and pushed open the door.

“Food’s here,” she sang out, then left the delivery boy on the landing while she hurried back downstairs to get back to the telly. 

John pushed his chair back and grabbed the money he’d dropped onto the table a few minutes before. 

“Here you go.”

The delivery boy – tall and gangly, wearing too-tight jeans, a ball cap and dark-rimmed glasses – held out the bags with one hand and took the money with the other. He scowled down at the two bills in his hand.

“Where’s the rest of the money?” he said. He spoke with an accent, then shrugged his shoulders and thrust the bills in his pocket. 

John frowned, staring at the pocket. He could clearly see the outline of the bills – the jeans were just that tight. 

“That’s what they told me on the phone, plus a tip.” John stood by the open door waiting for the delivery boy to leave. The kid, however, was shuffling his feet. He’d been staring at the floor since John appeared. “Look – I’m not giving you more money.”

“This is a nice flat. You live here alone?”

John took a step forward, hand outstretched, ready to get the kid in a stranglehold and toss him down the stairs.

The kid grabbed his wrist with quick reflexes as John’s hand darted out to grab him. 

“Oh no,” he said. “None of that. I think you owe me some money.”

The kid looked up and met John’s eyes. 

It was at this moment, and only this moment, that John realized that the delivery boy was Sherlock.

_Oh._

John understood immediately. The fantasy Sherlock had promised him.

He tried to keep the surprise off his face and out of his voice as he forced his body to relax, letting go of the tension from the threatening altercation.

“I don’t have any more money.” He made a show of trying to pull away but Sherlock’s fingers tightened around his wrist. 

“Ten quid?” Sherlock was keeping in character with the accent. West Country, John thought.

John shook his head. “That’s all I have. It’s more than I owe you – and you’re not exactly doing anything to make me want to give you more.”

“No?” Sherlock dropped his wrist and backed away from him. He glanced around the flat, curious eyes darting around like he’d never been here before. He looked back at John, who remained in front of the door, arms now crossed over his chest, glaring at Sherlock. 

Sherlock stared at John’s feet a moment, then lifted his gaze. With the ball cap hiding his hair, the skin-tight jeans and the modern glasses, he looked years younger. 

“Doesn’t have to be readies,” he said, voice tentative, but needy. He licked his lips. “Maybe a spliff?”

Jesus. Sherlock sure knew how to play him.

John shook his head. “Don’t even go there,” he said. His voice held a warning.

“Something else, then?” dared Sherlock. He put a hand on his left hip and winced convincingly. “Something to help with my back?” 

John’s fantasy really didn’t involve a lot of talking.

“What happened to it?” Sounding suspicious was easy. He’d had lots of practice with Sherlock.

Sherlock pushed up his shirt then tucked a thumb in the waistband of his jeans and tugged them lower to reveal a bruised hip. “Cab hit my bike last week,” he said. “It’s not been right since.”

Shit. The whole thing could fall apart right here and John knew it. Those were real bruises, not more than a few hours old. They looked bad enough to make Sherlock wince for real. He really shouldn’t let this go on, knowing that Sherlock had likely gone out and deliberately done this to himself. John could see him at Molly’s, trying to coerce her to hit him with a baseball bat. 

_It’s part of the act, Molly. I_ need _you to whack me._

John stared at the bared hip even as Sherlock pulled his hand away and let the jeans ride slowly back up.

“Why do you need something for the pain, then? What did you get from the A&E?”

“Didn’t go.” Sherlock sounded petulant. 

“Why not?”

Sherlock narrowed his own gaze. “That’s none of your business, you know,” he said. He nodded at the bags of food John had dropped onto a table near the door. “My job was to bring you that, and get paid for it. And you’ve not paid me for all of it yet. You don’t have enough – you’d already said that. I was just helping you out – giving you some other options.”

Sherlock was good at this. _Very_ good. John was beginning to believe that he really was dealing with a kid not far out of his teens.

“I can look at that for you,” John said, nodding in the general direction of Sherlock’s hip. “I’m a doctor.”

Sherlock snorted. “You’re a doctor and you don’t have pain meds lying around?” He looked at John again – John still staring at his hip – and seemed to have a revelation. “Doctor. Right.” He smiled and shifted his hips, rolling them suggestively. “The doctor wants to have a look at it, does he?”

John frowned. He shifted. He was already half hard from just watching Sherlock shift around in those jeans. “The doctor wants you out of here,” he managed. He pulled upon the door and nodded at the stairway.

Sherlock smirked. He made a show of tucking his shirt back into his too-low jeans. “You live alone?” he asked.

“That’s none of your business,” John answered.

“No one’s here now,” noted Sherlock. “But you bought food for two.”

“Also none of your business,” John said.

Sherlock shrugged and looked out the door, then back at John. “You don’t want me to leave,” he said, smiling. He walked slowly over to John. “Look, if you don’t have anything for me – the money, the spliff, the pills – we can talk about another way you can pay me.”

“I…” John trailed off. Sherlock had stepped in even closer. His fingers ghosted against the growing bulge in John’s jeans. He swallowed. God, Sherlock could play him better than his violin. This wasn’t quite like the delivery boy fantasy he’d had in mind. It was already ten times better, and a lot more realistic. 

He pushed Sherlock away. “I’m not interested. Get out.”

Sherlock reached behind him and pushed the door shut.

“You’re interested,” he breathed, stepping back into John’s space. “But the way I see it, Mr. Doctor, you owe me.”

Fuck fuck fuck. John shifted. Sherlock was trying to turn the tables on him.

Right then. John reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. “If you’re not out of here in thirty seconds, I’m calling the police.”

In a move John should have anticipated, Sherlock reached out and grabbed the mobile and took a few steps backward. His fingers danced over it and a cocky grin grew on his face.

“Greg, eh?” He looked back at the mobile and began reading aloud in a sultry voice. “His Royal Highness has gone out for a sulk. Call him soon, will you? He really needs an eight but he’ll settle for a five. I’ll make it up to you.” He tossed the phone up and caught it, grinning. “Knew it was a bloke. So you have His Royal Highness _and_ Greg. Seems a little greedy to me.” He gave John another once-over. “You all get together sometimes, yeah? With those friends of yours – what – number eight and number five?” He made a show of handing the mobile back to John. “So Mr. Sulky will settle for a five, eh? I bet you wouldn’t settle for anything less than the eight, would you?”

Jesus – John wanted to punch him. He knew it was just Sherlock play-acting, but he was so realistically annoying that he was beginning to think that a sharp left to the jaw would be as satisfying as a shag.

“You don’t have any idea what you’re taking about.” John’s fingers were closing into a fist and his cock was far past half-hard by this point.

“A blow job,” Sherlock said, startling John. “Right over there – on the sofa. Right here in the open so your boyfriend will see you if he walks in.”

“He’s not – he won’t - ” 

Sherlock’s thumb had hooked the waistband of his jeans again. 

“We’ll call it even and I’ll be on my way as soon as you make me come down your throat.”

John couldn’t help it. His mouth parted and he stared at Sherlock dumbly. The way he was speaking – it wasn’t a bit like Sherlock at all. The words, the accent, the cadence. He didn’t think Sherlock had ever uttered the words _make me come down your throat_ before. Sherlock would get up to all manner of things in bed, but never this raw, base, sexual talk.

It turned John on so much he no longer wanted to punch him.

He swallowed.

“What’s in it for me, then?” he asked, trying – and failing – to look disinterested.

“What say I don’t tell your boyfriend you’re seducing delivery boys?”

“I’m not seducing….” His words trailed off as Sherlock turned and walked over to the sofa, pulling off his t-shirt as he moved. The shirt and both shoes were on the floor before he settled in the center of the sofa. He pushed the sofa table out of the way with one foot and spread his long legs.

John walked halfway across the room and bent to pick up the shirt. It was new – now that it wasn’t being pulled taut against Sherlock’s chest, the creases from the folds could be seen. John dropped it on a chair. 

“You’re sloppy. I don’t like sloppy.”

Sherlock spread his arms out on the back of the sofa cushions. “Actually, I don’t either,” he said. 

John watched, turned on and uncomfortable with how well Sherlock had gaged him, as Sherlock undid the button of his jeans and tugged down the zipper. The head of his cock was pushing up against the zip. 

If John had any chance of taking control of this situation, it was now.

“Take them off,” he said. “Pants too.”

“I’m not wearing pants.” Sherlock gave John a satisfied smile. He didn’t move to pull off his jeans.

“Take the jeans off, then.” John took a step closer and kicked a shoe out of his way.

“I don’t think so,” said Sherlock. “What if your boyfriend comes back?”

“If my boyfriend comes back, I’m going to have him bugger you over the kitchen table,” John growled.

“Promise?” Sherlock drawled. “Is Greg going to watch?”

John kicked the other shoe out of the way. He kicked it harder than was strictly necessary, and it landed an inch short of the violin, which Sherlock had left propped against the wall.

“Careful – that thing looks pricy.”

John shook his head. “Cheap thing – sounds wretched.” It was an excellent dig, but Sherlock didn’t have to struggle to stay in character. Somehow, he was able to ignore the affronts to his violin and his playing. He leaned forward and grabbed John’s wrist in one fluid motion, then jerked him forward. 

“You know what to do,” he said, closing his fingers around John’s other wrist and pulling him in so their heads were nearly touching. He closed his knees around John’s thighs. “Do it how _he_ likes it.” 

“He likes it rough,” managed John. The words caught in his throat. “And he’s bossy – like to give directions and feel like he’s in charge when he’s not.”

His eyes were focused on Sherlock’s chest now, at the smooth expanse of skin, the scar that hadn’t faded much with time. 

Smooth? 

Christ – Sherlock had shaved his chest, from the patch of hair between his nipples to the treasure trail leading downward. He’d been gone – what? – six hours? How long had he had this charade planned?

John’s shook one hand free and reached forward, splaying his hand over Sherlock’s chest.

“Is this what all the young generation does now?” John asked, extending his thumb and flicking a nipple.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and squeezed John’s legs more tightly with his thighs.

“Get to work, old man,” he said, sounding cock-sure of himself.

He released John’s other wrist and spread his thighs again, holding John only with his gaze.

John slowly knelt, wondering just how much Sherlock had shaved. He grasped the waistband of the tight jeans and tugged downward to loosen it, frowning as more of the purpling flesh on the left hip was revealed. It was all he could do to tamp down the instinct to examine the injury, to patch Sherlock up as he always did.

Sherlock had been telling the truth – he wasn’t wearing pants. 

Whatever this thing was, this scrap of red leather, it couldn’t be called pants. 

“You naughty thing,” John breathed, working the leather down to reveal another perfectly smooth expanse of skin and a flushed, hard cock, with bollocks already drawn up. “Does your mum known you’ve borrowed her lingerie?”

“You owe me a blowjob, not a lecture about stealing my mum’s things,” Sherlock murmured. John bit back a smile as Sherlock pressed upward with his pelvis, obviously ready to play.

John wanted this cock more than he’d ever wanted a mouthful of cock before. It was startlingly different without the familiar nest of dark curls, seemingly longer, more pale. He wrapped his left hand around the hard length and teased Sherlock by pulling it toward him just enough to lick at the tip.

In return, Sherlock surprised him, pushing down on his head with one large hand, forcing that beautiful cock into his mouth.

He gagged, bit back a curse, and reminded himself that this wasn’t really Sherlock.

But _fuck_ it felt good to have that cock in his mouth at last.

He grabbed it at its base with one hand, and couldn’t resist spreading his fingers out, scraping his nails against the hairless flesh. Sherlock pressed up again, nearly choking him. The hand in his hair tightened, then slid down to the back of his head and pulled him forward. He fought against his gag reflex, closing his lips around the cock and sucking hard. 

Sherlock groaned as John worked his tongue on the underside, allowing the cockhead to press against the back of his throat. As Sherlock relaxed, John worked the organ out of his mouth and ran his hand up the length.

“Learn some manners,” he said. “You act like this is the first time you’ve had your cock in someone’s mouth.”

“It’s the first time I’ve had it in your mouth,” Sherlock answered, managing to sound cocky despite the throaty moans. 

“The last, too,” John said, unconvincingly, as he went down on Sherlock again.

The familiar cock felt entirely different. John felt like he was learning to give a blow job all over again. The man below him actively sought more, moaning with both hands gripping his head, pulling at his hair, straining upward, fucking his mouth with an abandon that was nothing at all like the Sherlock who shared his bed every night. This man was selfish, and demanding, and John couldn’t help but respond, pressing his face into the smooth groin, kissing up the hard length, letting Sherlock hold his head and piston his cock in and out while he cupped those exquisite, naked bollocks.

His own cock was solid and throbbing, straining against the fabric of his trousers, when Sherlock let out an undignified wail and started pulsing down his throat. He swallowed until the pulsing had stopped, then pushed himself away and sank back onto the floor.

They stared at each other, panting, for a full minute, then a smile played at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“You said something about a kitchen table?”

ooOoo

“John….” Sherlock pressed his head back into the pillow. “Stop that – I’m trying to sleep.” He attempted to turn over but John had a firm grip on his arse and had draped his body over Sherlock’s legs.

“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t sleep,” said John. He had Sherlock’s arse cheeks spread and was running the pad of his finger down the crease, then blowing on the sensitive flesh.

“’m not Sherlock Holmes. I’m still the delivery boy,” protested Sherlock.

“Then sleep.” John licked from the base of the bollocks up the crease, pressing into the hole with the tip of his tongue as he reached it. “Fuck – a Brazilian. What in the world possessed you to do this?”

Sherlock shuddered beneath him. Despite claiming he wanted to sleep, his body was definitely interested in the proceedings. 

“Molly suggested it,” Sherlock admitted, then groaned as John speared him again with his tongue. 

John worked his tongue around the rim, marveling at the feel of the hairless flesh.

“Mmm…did it hurt?” he whispered, grazing his cheek along an arse cheek and rubbing his stubble against it. He didn’t want to even consider the conversation that had led to Molly’s suggestion.

“Horribly,” answered Sherlock, now pressing back into John’s face. “I can cross that one off the bucket list now.”

“Getting a Brazilian wax job was on your bucket list?” John had a finger in now, and was working it in and around slowly as he scooted upward to kiss the small of Sherlock’s back.

“John, I don’t have a bucket list,” Sherlock clarified, clenching his arse cheeks and crying out as John’s finger grazed his prostate. 

“I like it,” John murmured, sinking his face back into the smooth derriere. He pushed his tongue in again, then worked his hand down to grasp Sherlock’s length. “Though I think I’d like my hitchhiker to blow me while one of Mycroft’s chauffeurs drives me around. Think you can arrange that?”

“Do you like your hitchhikers…young?” Sherlock groaned as John fisted him.

“No – not at all. I like them all grown up. Aristocratic bloke who can’t get it at home, maybe. Married and closeted. Desperate – will do practically anything to get off.”

Sherlock shuddered as John worked two fingers inside him, then leaned in to run his tongue along the perineum, nibbling at the base of the bollocks and fisting the cock with his left hand until Sherlock shuddered through another orgasm.

“You do know your hitchhiker is Mycroft, don’t you?” asked Sherlock a few minutes later as they nestled together.

John pushed himself up on one elbow and stared down at Sherlock, mouth open, horrified.

“No… No. I’m changing my mind. Big brawny bloke, dropped out of school. Works at the docks. Fish and chips for every meal. Lives at home with his grandmother….”

“Hmmm,” said Sherlock. “You had another fantasy, didn’t you? Something with handcuffs? Perhaps you’d like to be tied up naked in a cell while Mycroft interrogates you.”

“Sherlock – stop it. No.”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “I wonder if he’d bring his umbrella…”

_Fin_


End file.
